


Love and other nonsense

by SoldierOfMyShadowyMind



Series: Love and other nonsense [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur is overthinking things as always, Caring Arthur, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, Eames is tragic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Soon to be Resolved, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind/pseuds/SoldierOfMyShadowyMind
Summary: Eames, on his back, grins up at him from amidst the wreckage. “Darling, there you are.”Arthur schools his features into a disapproving frown.“Are you drunk?”“Yes” Eames confirms with emphasis like he’s proud of it, “I am drunk and I need you to save me.”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: Love and other nonsense [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741459
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	Love and other nonsense

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we go, version number two that was actually the first attempt. Darker, sappier (yes, those two are not mutually exclusive) and a lot of angst.
> 
> Title and lyrics at the end from White Lies’ _Getting Even_. Again, the credit for the inspiration for a scene of a drunk Eames barging in on Arthur goes to Peaky Blinders S4E05.

“Arthur!”

The door flies open and crashes against the wall with a loud _bang_.

“Arthur!” comes the call for his name again and Arthur momentarily hesitates, suspended between exasperation and the onset of alarm. He strains his ears, body completely still and poised for reaction, searching the beat of silence that follows for any indicators of violence. The job went smoothly, he didn’t expect trouble. But Arthur knows better than anyone not to rely on expectations in this business.

There is muffled curse from the main room as heavy footfalls pound the floor and a painful sounding slap as, Arthur supposes, the door swings back, taking revenge on the intruder. He winces in sympathy.

Satisfied that there are no signs of immediate danger, Arthur relaxes his shoulders, releasing the tension and smoothing the frown from his brow. He takes one deep breath, glancing at his reflection in the mirror as if expecting some sort of advice but when nothing seems forthcoming he tucks his gun away and opens the bathroom door. A few minutes later and he’d have been in the shower and this whole thing would have taken a sharp turn for the awkward.

“Eames?” he calls. “What’s the fucking racket out here?”

There had been something to Eames’s voice wrapping itself around Arthur’s name when he’d shouted for him. Something that had convinced Arthur that everything was alright, no danger, no hasty departure. (Eames has never been a close observer of Cobb’s number one rule, every man for himself. Especially, and maybe only, when it comes to Arthur. Arthur is grateful for it and stubbornly ignores any other feelings this reckless and possibly life-threatening stupidity on Eames’s part stirs up in him.)

But there had also been something in his voice that had told Arthur that something was not quite right.

He strides into the main room, fully prepared to face whatever nonsense Eames has chosen to bother him with head-on. Fatigue is making his bones heavy and he was looking forward to washing off the dust of abandoned warehouses and side streets that clings to his clothes and hair. A few hours of real, uninterrupted sleep before he’ll have to be on a plane again tomorrow. This unscheduled visit would be over even more quickly but Arthur can’t shake the feeling that there’s _something_.

He claps eyes on Eames the second the forger makes an aborted move that turns him half towards Arthur and a sluggish smile spreads on his face when his eyes settle on him.

“Arthur” he garbles but he’s not paying attention to his feet and stumbles right into the small desk, the only table in the room, instinctively clutching at the tablecloth and for a heartbeat he hangs there, somewhere between standing and falling. Arthur can’t help himself, he smiles, amused at the comically slow transformation of Eames’s features, eyes going wide, mouth forming an o-shape, and Arthur can see the moment when realisation hits and Eames loses his balance and falls over backwards. His hands are still clenched in the cloth and he pulls everything down with him in a cacophony of noise. Arthur’s papers and tomorrow’s plane ticket flutter everywhere, the mug and kettle clatter to the floor, the TV remote slithers under the bed.

There is a beat of silence as the table stays upright.

Eames, on his back, grins up at him from amidst the wreckage. “Darling, there you are.”

Arthur schools his features into a disapproving frown. “Are you drunk?”

“Yes” Eames confirms with emphasis like he’s proud of it, “I am drunk.” But in the blink of an eye something changes and his face goes entirely earnest, his eyes blinking up at Arthur imploringly. Eames opens his mouth and declares, with heartbreaking fervour, “I need you to save me.”

Arthur stares down at him, hands on his hips, unimpressed.

“Arthur, I am drunk and I need you to save me” Eames slurs.

Arthur ignores the desperation in his voice in favour of closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand over his face. It couldn’t have been easy, just this once, could it?

“How many have you had?” he asks even though he knows it’s pointless.

Eames proceeds to prove the point. “Arthur, your bed isn’t very comfortable. It’s not good for your back, you know.”

Arthur takes that as his cue because he can do without Eames talking about his _bed_ , thank you. “Alright, let’s get you to the couch.”

When Eames doesn’t show any signs of cooperating, Arthur takes a step closer, hovering over him, face set in a scowl. “Eames?”

“Yes, yes” Eames says, most likely without even knowing what he’s agreeing to. He tries to nod his head but only proceeds in banging it against the floor. He scrunches up his nose at the sudden pain and the sight of him like this, sprawled on the floor, such utterly innocent surprise on his face, it steals Arthur’s breath for a second.

Arthur sighs and extends his hand. He’ll dump Eames on the couch and give him half an hour to sober up enough so that he’ll be able to walk back to his own hotel. How the fuck did he even make it here? In the state he’s in Arthur wouldn’t have thought he’d remember where Arthur was staying.

Eames’s capacity to surprise him knows no bounds, apparently. It’s something Arthur’s always liked about him.

Eames flings his arm up but the movement’s too fast and uncontrolled and he misses Arthur’s hand by miles. Taking pity on him, Arthur grabs his arm with both hands and hauls him up to sitting.

“Eames, you’ll have to help me here. You’re heavy.”

Eames gives him a look as if he’s taken offence at that statement but it vanishes as quickly as all of tonight’s predecessors and Arthur feels Eames’s warm palm against his shirt sleeve as Eames grips his arm. With a concerted effort and under a lot of grunts and stumbling back and forth they manage to hoist him upright and get him over to the couch where he collapses in a mess of limbs. For a moment, Arthur just stands there in front of him and takes him in, an odd tightness in his chest. His horrid shirt – a lime green affront – is buttoned unevenly and his hair is a mess and if Arthur didn’t know the bruise under his right eye to be the result of an unfortunate collision with one of Cobb’s ubiquitous whiteboards, he’d have thought Eames had been in a bar brawl. The fact that he is completely wasted certainly doesn’t make that assumption entirely unreasonable.

“What did you get yourself into?” Arthur mumbles, quietly enough that Eames won’t hear the fond undertone. He leaves him on the sofa, halfway curled up as if in sleep, to get him a glass of water.

When he returns from the bathroom, Eames hasn’t moved an inch. “Eames?” he asks gently, crouching down in front of him. “Do you think you can sit up?”

Eames makes a noise that’s halfway between a grumble and a yawn. Arthur deposits the glass on the floor and carefully lays a hand on Eames’s shoulder. “You’re going to have a killer headache tomorrow, anyway, but we need to get some water in you before you go to sleep, okay?”

“Hmm” Eames rumbles and with Arthur’s help he sits up, listing heavily to the side.

Arthur hands him the glass of water, keeping a steadying hand on Eames’s knee. “Here, drink this.”

Eames gulps down the water like a man dying of thirst and when he holds the glass out for Arthur to take, his eyes are a little less glassy. “You’re so nice to me” he mumbles, so softly that Arthur isn’t sure he even meant to say it out loud. “No one’s ever this nice to me.”

Both the thought and the words carve a space into Arthur’s heart and make a home there, painfully. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t contradict. It would be a futile endeavour, arguing with a drunk man.

Eames blinks a few times as if trying to establish where he is. When the confusion wears off and his eyes find Arthur’s he suddenly looks ashamed.

Arthur swallows thickly because no, he can’t have that. “Hey” he says gently, reaching out a hand that Eames clasps sloppily in both of his. “It’s okay.”

Eames says nothing, just studies him with those attentive, expressive eyes and Arthur feels his face heat under the undivided attention. Eames’s gaze sweeps over him but he searches out Arthur’s eyes again and again, as if there’s something in them that he needs to find. There’s a deep frown carving lines into his forehead and he looks as though he’s trying hard to remember something.

Arthur tries to speak but he’s finding it hard to talk around the lump lodged in his throat. A mere moment ago Eames burst through his door, half destroying his hotel room and Arthur had been prepared to throw him right out again and now Eames is sitting here in front of Arthur and that _something_ is back, this time behind the intense blue of his eyes.

Finally, Eames speaks. Arthur holds his breath. “Arthur. Arthur, this is very important” his voice is raspy and low and the words come out haltingly but he says it with such urgency that it’s all Arthur can do to hold his gaze.

His hand is trembling in Eames’s grasp. “What is?” he whispers.

Eames’s face does something complicated before it settles somewhere between hope and pain. “I need you to save me.”

Arthur hangs his head. He should have known. The moment he found Eames on the floor, he should have put him in a cab and sent him on his way but he didn’t and he’ll pay for it. By having to abuse the trust placed in him. Again. Eames should know better by now.

He makes to stand up but Eames’s fingers tighten around his hand like a vice. “Don’t go” he whispers and it takes all of Arthur’s self-control to gently extricate himself.

“I’ll be right back” he assures him, picking up the empty glass just so his hand has something to hold onto.

Arthur doesn’t know what to do so he refills the glass in the bathroom, going through the motions mechanically, avoiding the mirror. He wouldn’t like what he’d find there. Confusion. Denial. Hope, worst of all. He tries not to think about the dejected figure slumped on the sofa, either, but it doesn’t work. His heart is beating too fast and he can’t clear his head enough to think. Eames is drunk, nothing good can possibly come of this. Arthur needs to put a stop to this right now.

Eames shouldn’t be here and yet he is, waiting patiently for Arthur to break his heart yet again.

Arthur doesn’t know if he can bring himself to do it this time.

He also doesn’t know if he’s strong enough not to.

What exactly is he hoping for? The outcome will be the same, just as always. Exacerbated by the alcohol. Eames gets sentimental when he’s drunk. Arthur gets… well, contemplative when he sees Eames like this. But doubting himself is not something he thought he’d have to deal with tonight. Truth be told, he didn’t think he’d have to deal with any of this tonight. Their well-practised dance of offer and rejection.

Eames hasn’t tried anything in months. For so long that Arthur’s come to… not _miss_ it but expect something to happen. Evidently, it’s happening tonight.

Arthur grips the sink with both hands, knuckles turning white. He can’t be what Eames wants him to be, wants _them_ to be because that would mean giving all of himself over and Arthur knows they wouldn’t survive that. Eames would get so much more than what he bargained for and then there’d be only one road for them to go down, one Arthur needs to avoid at all cost because it would be what breaks them. Arthur’s told himself it’s the job that holds him back, the admission of vulnerability, of a chink in that perfect armour. He has a feeling that these empty platitudes won’t do this time.

Tonight will end with one of them getting hurt. Arthur just needs to minimise the damage. Be the sensible one.

He’s just not _prepared_.

Eames had always been frighteningly good at catching him unawares.

Eames is still where he left him, shoulders hunched and head lowered but he looks up when he hears Arthur approach. Arthur’s heart stops at the absolute faith in his eyes, still believing in something Arthur can’t give.

Arthur clings onto his resolve and gently sits down across from Eames on the bed. His hands fumble for a heartbeat, not knowing whether to reach out, offer comfort. He lets them fall into his lap where they can’t do damage.

“What are we going to do with you?” he says, more to himself than the man in front of him. He needs to build his guard up again, approach this with reason.

Somehow that’s never worked with Eames.

“I love you, Arthur” Eames says. It hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. “I know you don’t want to hear it but I love you.”

Arthur freezes, gaze averted. What is there for him to say? What words could possibly express the way Arthur’s thoughts are pulling him into all directions?

God knows he’s tried them all.

“That’s why I’m here” Eames continues, voice hoarse. “Not to tell you that, you already know. Or maybe that too, to say it one more time because I won’t have the courage in the morning.”

Arthur almost expects him to laugh at himself but it doesn’t come.

“It’s pathetic, I know. Getting drunk to have this conversation.” He sounds far more sober than Arthur feels.

Arthur knows he needs to stop him now but the defences have never been strong around the sandcastle of his heart when it came to Eames. He stays silent even though they both know it’s only prolonging the inevitable.

“But you’ve said, once, that you couldn’t have this conversation sober. You’ve also said you _couldn’t_ have this conversation. Or wouldn’t; doesn’t really make a difference, does it, because we’re having it now.” Eames looks up at that and his eyes bore into Arthur’s soul.

Arthur tries not to flinch and fails.

“Perhaps that’s the reason I got drunk. So that when I came here, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from saying it. It’s not fair play, I know, because I’m forcing you to listen. Not to have the conversation, you don’t need to talk, Arthur. You don’t need to say anything, just listen.” He speaks softly but the intensity of his words, the gravity of what he’s saying weighs heavily on Arthur’s shoulders.

Eames runs a hand through his hair but the moment he lifts it Arthur feels his fingers twitch, thinking, idiotically, Eames would reach out for him.

“Let’s not kid ourselves.” Eames clears his throat and if anyone were to ask Arthur who of them has had too much to drink, he’d point at himself. His head is spinning but he can’t think of a way to make Eames stop. All these years, all these lies, he’s finally run out of reasons.

“Right, Arthur? Let’s be adults. Rip the band-aid off, isn’t that what they say? You know _that_ , that’s the real reason I got drunk. ‘Cause I ripped it off and then it hurt.” Eames pauses for moment and Arthur thinks of all those hurtful things he threw at him, casual words that cut deep. He’s tried them all and Eames never folded but now, _now_ it hurt.

Arthur wants to laugh at his own incredulity, at his audacity to think he could break this man when all he’d succeeded in was breaking his own heart over and over again.

Out of the two of them, Eames has always been the strong one.

Arthur watches him, cautiously, like a spooked animal assessing danger. He knows he’s being unfair and yet he wonders how this situation slipped from his control so fast and so violently.

“I decided something tonight, Arthur” Eames says. He’s staring at his hands now. Arthur notices they’re entirely steady and for a second, he envies him before he remembers it’s him who brought Eames to say what he’s come here to say.

“I decided something” Eames repeats, quietly, as if fortifying himself. His voice is heavy with conviction and yet he seems reluctant to speak. One last moment of consideration before he crosses a line they won’t be able to come back from. “I decided to give up.” At the last word, he glances up and meets Arthur’s gaze. Arthur doesn’t know what Eames is seeing in his eyes but it seems to prompt him to go on. Get it over with.

“I’ve finally realised I’m fighting a war I cannot win. Took me long enough. So I’ve decided to give in— well, not gracefully, this isn’t graceful, is it.” He gestures at himself, self-deprecating, swaying a little and yet it is Arthur who feels dizzy from the movement. Eames has managed to surprise him again. “But to stop, anyway. Because you want me to stop, don’t you, Arthur?”

Arthur wishes Eames wouldn’t look at him like that because now Arthur’s finally figured out what it is in Eames’s eyes and his voice that’s been gnawing at him since Eames quite literally fell into his hotel room.

It’s sadness, pure and simple. Incurable sadness, the kind that comes with the acceptance of defeat.

Arthur wishes he had the strength to look away but he’s always been drawn in by those eyes.

“You don’t love me, or you can’t, and I’ll have to stop trying to change that.”

Arthur presses his lips together but against what, he can’t fathom. There’s nothing there to come out, anyway, he is utterly unprepared for this. He’s rejected Eames so many times over the years, telling him lie after lie. That he wasn’t ready, that it was too dangerous, that they wouldn’t work anyway so why put themselves through the misery of trying.

Steadily chipping away at that strong, beautiful heart.

Something must have worked because Eames is here, drunk, telling him he knows Arthur doesn’t love him back.

“And now I’m even more miserable than before.” Eames laughs but it’s devoid of humour. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

The world beyond the drawn curtains is dark, the windows hidden by the heavy cloth. No surface to reflect the totality of Arthur’s mistakes back at him. Not that there is any further need for that. The man in front of him is evidence enough. Arthur finds himself wishing he was someone outside looking in just so he didn’t have to deal with that look of determined heartbreak on Eames’s face.

He keeps his eyes down when he finally speaks because when it comes to matters of the heart, his strength and determination elude him. Because even now he doesn’t know how to salvage this. “I can’t save you.” His throat feels raw, his voice fails him, the words coming out broken and only half true.

“Whoever said you’d have to?”

If there was ever someone to break his heart without meaning to and love him while doing it, it would be Eames. The silence that settles over them doesn’t carry accusation, only loneliness.

It’s never as easy as ripping off the band-aid.

In this moment Arthur knows three things to be unequivocally true:

He could send Eames away now and Eames would go without protest. It would be over and done with and they’d never have to look back. But it would be the end.

But if he told Eames to stay and to stay for good and that’s what breaks them, in the end, Arthur wouldn’t have to be strong. If all this tears them apart, Eames will be strong for him.

And lastly. Eames expects nothing from him. Nothing at all.

Arthur buries his face in his hands, wishing he could put this on hold, delay like he did for the past ten years. They have been fighting against each other for so long that Arthur feels utterly off-balance now that it all threatens to slip through his fingers.

All these years he’s been trying to protect Eames, protect them both from the inevitable. Arthur’s not good at this, promises, relationships. There will always be something he’s not prepared to give, things that he can’t make sense of. He never wanted to see the evidence of Eames’s reckless adoration of him because he knew he couldn’t stand by and watch Eames get what he thought he wanted only to have it taken away again. And with what they do, in their line of work, caring is a fatal flaw. Arthur has watched Eames die enough times to understand.

And when Arthur inevitably messes this up because he couldn’t be what Eames wanted, Eames will leave and Arthur wouldn’t be able to bear that.

Hurt to protect. Keep what they have. It seemed simple enough. With the exception that Arthur had thought he’d only have to break Eames’s heart once.

Now the foundations of what they are are threatening to break away. Idiotically, Arthur had thought they’d simply go on like this, even if it meant hurting each other. But because Eames still believes in him, even after everything, he’s placed it all in Arthur’s hands. The ultimate gamble.

Arthur just has to decide where to steer them. Listen to reason or finally accept the invitation that after tonight he’ll never be offered again.

He looks up, chances a glance across the small space. They’re almost in touching distance. Arthur could reach out and end it all here and now. Eames’s eyes on him are steady and Arthur meets them, drawing a breath without knowing what he’ll deal. The world shimmers behind those eyes, fragile as if trembling at the touch of Arthur’s hand, heavy with what they’ve done to each other. Bright with what they could be.

Arthur realises Eames is waiting for him to say something. Arthur is waiting for the same.

The light creeping in from the open bathroom door paints shadows across their faces.

Eames is looking at him like he’s mesmerised, still, by Arthur’s mere presence, like he hasn’t swept Arthur off his feet time and again with his sweet sincerity, his illogical devotion. The contrary nature of a man who’d make decisions with a flick of the hand, brazen and careless and yet fiercely protective of the ones close to his heart. Who, against all reason, marvellously, paradoxically, seems utterly enchanted by all of Arthur.

Like Arthur wouldn’t let him do it all over again.

And now this fixed point in Arthur’s life has started to move away. It makes panic rise in his chest. Maybe he’s just waited until the worst possible moment, the last moment, to grab on and hold on tight.

Eames never gave up, always came back. How can Arthur not give him everything when Eames has already given him all of himself? He’s known it all along, probably, but only now does Arthur let himself _see_. He wants Eames to try again and this time Arthur won’t shy away.

He can go far back into the maze of their history to find proof that he loves Eames but he doesn’t have to. Arthur remembers the man grinning up at him from amidst the mess he’d made and calling him _darling._

“Don’t give up” he whispers. “Don’t give up on me, Eames.”

Arthur has always trusted Eames. Maybe it’s time he started trusting him in this, too.

Eames visibly startles and the realisation that he expected something else, for Arthur to deal the final blow, just _tears_ at Arthur’s heart. All he ever wanted was to spare them both pain and what he did instead was subject Eames to ten years of this.

Not able to bear the genuine surprise in Eames’s eyes he stands up, trying to calm his frantically beating heart. He crosses the small space between them, sits down next to Eames on the narrow couch.

Eames still doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch, doesn’t dare breathe. For fear of breaking him, Arthur knows. Him, this, them. It’s always all been one and the same.

Arthur reaches out, takes Eames’s hand in his. “I don’t know how this works.” It’s a last feeble attempt but it holds some truth. He has let fear of losing define him, has let hurt define _them_ before they even could be anything. Paralysed by his own fear of being hurt, his own fear of the inevitability of losing Eames. All this time he was playing it safe, scared of letting go.

Eames’s fingers close around his and he turns Arthur’s hand so that it’s resting on top of his own, gently stroking his thumb over Arthur’s knuckles.

Suddenly Arthur can’t stand the silence. “I understand if you want to leave. Protect yourself—” But Eames stops him with a finger to his lips and this time, when Arthur looks, there’s no surprise in his eyes. Only affection. Arthur is so startled by their proximity that he lets the words ebb away. His lips part slightly and he watches Eames’s gaze drop to his mouth, momentarily distracted. The air between them is charged with too many things for Arthur to comprehend.

But then Eames’s face clears and he looks at Arthur with soft eyes and _smiles_. “Darling” Eames breathes and that’s all Arthur needs to hear.

He collapses forward with a breathless laugh and rests his forehead on Eames’s shoulder. Eames’s arms wrap around him and Arthur feels him bury his nose in his hair. It’s sweetly gentle, desperately intimate. As if making up for lost time. He can’t quite stop laughing and Eames joins in and it isn’t earth-shattering or momentous, just the natural conclusion to something that Arthur’s fought for too long.

If he had known it would be this easy—

Things seem bigger when you can’t see them.

Eames is stroking the side of his face and looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world and Arthur feels strangled with relief. He smiles, finally feeling something settle in his chest. He could have gone on the way they had for over a decade but Eames’s words gave him pause. _You don’t love me, or you can’t._ Arthur had always just assumed he knew. It would have been okay, that way.

Arthur leans into his touch, closing his eyes briefly. Allowing himself to just _feel_. They’ll figure it out, how to do this. They’ve both stuck around long enough to know that together they can bend the world to their will.

Arthur tries to shift into a more comfortable position, holding onto Eames for support, but Eames’s hands gently grip his hips. “Careful, darling. I’m still drunk, so no quick movements. My sense of balance is still a little wonky.” He chuckles a little helplessly.

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes but settles in again. “How many _have_ you had?”

“Believe me, pet, you wouldn’t want to know.” There’s a sharp glint in his eyes and Arthur decides it’s at least half due to the alcohol.

The other half, he can relate to.

Arthur leans back a little, hands braced on Eames’s shoulders. His smile widens when Eames brushes his thumb against the corner of his mouth, letting it travel upwards, caressing his cheekbone, tracing the shape of his eyebrow. He’s touching him with a reverence that Arthur wouldn’t have thought to still be there after so many years. He marvels at it. At Eames.

Slowly, Eames takes one of Arthur’s hands from his shoulder, guides it to his lips and kisses his palm. Arthur barely suppresses a shudder and Eames grins. It’s meant to be triumphant but a little shyness lingers in the curl of his mouth. Arthur slides his hand around Eames’s jaw, feeling the stubble under his fingertips, then up, mirroring the path of Eames’s fingers. He feels Eames’s eyes on him, observant, waiting, his breath on the skin of Arthur’s wrist, his body trembling ever so slightly, but Arthur follows his hand with his eyes, touching all that before he was only allowed to see. He slides his fingers into Eames’s hair, letting his hand come to rest tenderly on the back of his neck.

He feels Eames move closer but Arthur stays right where he is.

“It’s not true” he says, almost absent-mindedly.

Eames inhales sharply; Arthur feels his shoulders move under his hand that’s still holding onto him.

“It’s not true that I don’t love you.”

The breath rushes out of him and Eames’s shoulders fall and he shakes his head. “Arthur” he pants, a laugh mixed with relief.

Arthur bites his lip and smiles. “Sorry” he mumbles. He could have gone about that a bit gentler but it needed to be set right. He can leave worrying about _saying_ it right for later.

The chuckle ebbs away and Eames stills, eyes rising to meet Arthur’s, shining with such ardent devotion that Arthur doesn’t know what to do with it. Eames doesn’t leave him time to contemplate, leaning in, gaze flickering to his mouth and back up again, as if he’s asking for permission.

Arthur stops him with a gentle hand to his chest.

Eames looks like he’s been slapped in the face. “No, Arthur, don’t deny me this. I need—”

“I know” Arthur says softly. He looks up into those impossibly blue eyes and the dismay he sees there breaks his heart. “Tomorrow, okay?”

Eames shakes his head violently, eyes pleading with Arthur. “No, not tomorrow. Now. Please, Arthur.”

The sudden shift in the atmosphere, the tension that they’d finally lost for the past few minutes creeping back in make it hard for Arthur to think. He wants to give in, oh how he wants, but Eames is still a little drunk. And the voice in his head that’s been whispering hesitations into his ear for years is telling him that the night makes them all want things, do things they’ll regret, the night removes all inhibition and sense, a cover for stupidity and recklessness. Arthur doesn’t want what they’ve just gained to fall prey to their foolishness. He couldn’t bear it if—

Eames voices what Arthur doesn’t dare put into words. “What if I don’t remember this tomorrow?” he pleads desperately. “I can’t go back to being alone, Arthur, please don’t make me. Not now that—”

Now that Arthur’s finally giving him a chance.

Arthur frowns, confused. “Does it make a difference? If you won’t know any of this tomorrow, what does it matter?”

Eames smiles tragically. “I’d have kissed you. Even if I don’t remember, I’d have kissed you at least once.” His eyes are so open and so heart-wrenchingly _sad_ , laying it all bare. Years of longing, a well of emotion. And he’s not making any sense but Arthur’s trembling with the force of years of holding back and he doesn’t want to fight this, he just wants to do it _right_.

Eames is looking at him, waiting for him, eyes filled with so much trust. Trusting Arthur to handle the part of him he’s willingly surrendered with care. For once, he should honour it, meet him halfway. Offer up a bit of himself. It’s hard, balancing his heart between happiness to have found and terror to fracture, to ruin.

He can try, he supposes, to stop asking _Which would be the bigger mistake?_ Try to stop hurting Eames.

“Okay” he whispers.

Eames swallows, nodding once and Arthur slides both his hands down Eames’s arms to take his hands, physical, solid proof when words won’t suffice.

It’s so easy, the way they melt together, almost familiar. As if it’s what they should have been doing all this time. Eames’s hands come up to frame his face and he looks at him with such sincerity and surrender, Arthur’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. He closes his eyes against it all for a moment and startles slightly when Eames touches his lips to his. So gentle, cautious as if testing the waters. He’s holding back and suddenly Arthur feels the need to prove to him that he’s not playing games. He leans forward and captures Eames’s lips with intent, kissing him firmly, one hand coming up to run through his hair. Eames sighs against his mouth and places a hand between Arthur’s shoulder blades. Arthur’s body loosens instantly, all tension bleeding away and with it all thought, leaving Arthur feeling truly at ease for the first time in weeks. He focuses on the closeness of Eames, his warmth, and lets himself get lost in the kiss. It’s slow, it’s new, and yet it almost feels like muscle memory, the way they move towards each other, fitting perfectly in each other’s spaces. Eames’s lips are slightly chapped and he’s trying, without much success, to control his breathing. It’s endearing.

Arthur opens his mouth, deepens the kiss, all worries pushed to the back of his mind. Eames responds in kind, tracing the seam of his lower lip with his tongue before capturing it gently between his teeth. There’s something fierce about him now, hurried where before it was languid. He’s kissing him with an intensity that’s as much passionate as it is hasty, as if he’s afraid Arthur will run as soon as he lets go.

It makes Arthur’s chest ache and yet he can’t blame him. “Eames” he murmurs but Eames doesn’t seem to hear him – or doesn’t want to – kissing his lips, the corner of his mouth, his jaw line.

“Eames.” Arthur leans away but only a little, just enough to draw breath. His lips are tingling. Eames lets up and meets Arthur’s eyes and to Arthur’s utter delight he looks almost shy. Arthur touches two fingers to Eames’s chin, apologies on his fingertips. For tonight’s pain, for making him wait, for that look in Eames’s eyes that says he still can’t quite believe it.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow” he says and means it. There’s a hundred other things he could have said but somehow this feels the safest right now.

“I know” Eames says, hushed, and presses a quick kiss to Arthur’s lips. Arthur keeps him there a moment longer, relishing the feel of him. Eames’s hand on the side of Arthur’s neck is warm, thumb rubbing slow circles into his skin.

When they separate Arthur shifts carefully so that he can rest his head against Eames’s chest. Even now Eames can’t seem to stop touching, hands innocently mapping every bit of Arthur he can reach. Treasuring.

After all Arthur’s put him through it feels undeserved but there are things about Eames, he supposes, that he’ll never understand.

They stay like this for a while, neither of them speaking. Both afraid to break the spell, Arthur thinks. He’s starting to feel a little restless but tamps down on it, lets Eames’s presence ground him. There’s time for all that other nonsense later.

All of a sudden he notices Eames’s utter stillness. Arthur looks up at him as best as he can from his position. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow but he’s not sleeping. Not feigning either; Arthur’s had enough time to learn that Eames doesn’t pretend with him. But there’s only room for one of them to be scared and it can’t be Eames, Arthur doesn’t know how to take the lead.

What he can do is reassure.

And what he does know is that he’ll have a crick in the neck tomorrow if he falls asleep like this. Arthur doesn’t have the heart to send him back to his own hotel. Even drunk, Eames won’t let anything happen tonight. Arthur knows Eames has the same desire to do this right, to keep this now that he finally holds it in his hands.

“I’m going to take a shower now” he informs him, “and then we’re going to sleep.” He nods towards the bed with more confidence than he feels. Before Eames can protest, be the gentleman Arthur knows him to be, he stands up, ignoring the way his body instantly misses Eames’s sure, safe warmth.

Eames gently grips his wrist, keeps him there as he gets up himself, a little surer in his movements now. Arthur’s heart starts beating faster again as Eames steps closer, those expressive eyes trapping him right there. It’s almost unnerving, the focus with which Eames regards him. Before Arthur can answer the only way he knows how – by removing himself from the situation – Eames steps fully into his space and kisses him again. It’s incredibly tender, almost bittersweet and it leaves Arthur a little light-headed. If all of this is going to be like _that_ …

It will make thinking a lot harder which is probably Eames’s intention. Arthur can’t fault him for it. He’s got a lot of figuring out to do but for now kissing seems like the better option. He lets time stretch but eventually breaks away, not quite meeting Eames’s eyes as he turns around and heads for the bathroom.

He’s almost through the door when Eames blurts, “I am totally and utterly in love with you, darling, I have been for more than ten years.”

When he turns, Eames is standing in the middle of the room, arms at his sides. He’s fighting with his expression, as if he wanted to say it but not now and then lost the battle, anyway. These facial acrobatics collide with the earnestness in his steady gaze. It’s terribly adorable.

Arthur feels something clawing in his chest, an almost physical need to reach out and touch. He smiles, fighting the blush that he knows Eames can see anyway.

Arthur mentally wrestles with himself over whether or not to close the bathroom door and then leaves it ajar, knowing that Eames won’t come.

He feels a bit ridiculous but does it anyway, if only for the thrill of it.

They take turns in the bathroom and afterwards settle into the bed. Arthur tries not to think too hard about it and fails spectacularly, his own jumbled mind impossible to navigate after the night’s dizzying developments.

Thankfully, Eames is there to stop him when he’s getting too caught up in himself. Strong arms wrap around him in a tight embrace. “I’m going to take so very good care of you, darling.” It’s whispered into his hair, accompanied by a feather-light brush of lips to his forehead.

Arthur closes his eyes before opening them again, the room just light enough for him to make out Eames’s features in the dark. It’s easier when he’s this close. “Just promise me you’ll remember this tomorrow.”

Eames smiles at him with unfocused eyes, happy and utterly content.

_So listen to some reason, there’s nothing in your dreams_   
_I can forgive, and we can forget_   
_Even after all this love and other nonsense we made_

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention there’s no plot?
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think!


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